


In the Silences

by cells55



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cells55/pseuds/cells55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Be Cool angst. Mindy returns to her place after a few drinks, and finds someone else, equally drunk and miserable, waiting for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Silences

She can smell liquor by the time she opens the door, which is weird. There’s a feeling in her gut – uneasy, almost sickening – that she pushes down, wrapping her coat tighter around her body instinctively. She's had a few drinks herself, and so it isn't too weird as she stumbles through the door - except that actually, something is blocking her way.

That something grasps at her ankle, and she shrieks at the top of her lungs.

“Mindy!” The soft voice is familiar, and a body rises from the floor, the hand now holding on to her shoulder. “Don’t scream. It’s me.”

She squints in the darkness, her breathing shallow and her heart pumping. Of course she knows who it is – how could she not? – but the shadows falling across his face frighten her, strangely.

"Jesus, Danny," she breathes heavily, clutching her chest. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," he mumbles, and flicks on the light nearby. He looks tired, worn at the edges. "I...still had my key."

"Oh." She stares at him for a long moment. "Okay."

They’re sat down on the couch before anyone speaks again. The scent of alcohol lingers on his clothes, on her skin, and his fingers fumble with the bottom of his jacket. He can’t seem to look at her, and she knows she can’t look at him. There’s too much to say, too much that can’t seem to be said, too much hanging in the air between them that has to be ignored.

She wishes it didn’t have to be ignored.

Some things never change, though, no matter how hard they try. Their arms are touching, barely at all, but the shiver it sends down her spine is one she has felt many times before. They’re not talking, but somehow each person’s silence compliments the other’s; everything fits together, his unspoken question to her unspoken answer, need going through them, steady and undeniable, like a pulse. It’s all she can do to stop herself reaching out for his hand, to feel his skin against hers, even for a second. A second is all she can hope for.

Finally it seems like he can’t stay quiet any longer. It's kind of a miracle either of them have kept this silence going. Maybe it's the influence of alcohol; maybe it's the fact that everything is just the worst.

He glances over at her, his stare burning in to her exposed neck, tracing along the contours of her body that he has kissed, caressed, held in his arms more times than he could count, precious times he relives in his mind when he catches her eye. Passion is difficult to control, this they both know without realising that the other does. But it has to be done; it hangs over them, his words echoing between them even weeks after. When her smile stopped being genuine, when his desire was locked inside him. When he told her it was over.

“So I heard something funny today.”

There’s a lilt to his voice, a slur, that reminds her of the scent of liquor lingering on him – almost as if her senses had been blocked until he had spoken. She meets his gaze at last, waiting for the punch line.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he assures her, dropping his eyes to his lap and pausing before allowing his head to flop back on to the couch. “I heard you were screwing Peter.”

She never thought six words would hurt so much, would have so much sting to them - ridiculous words, words that would have been _hilarious_ to her a few drinks ago. He was drunk, of course he was drunk, but he still had more power over her than even he realised.

She blinks, speechless.

“And I thought it was funny,” he continues, the slurring of his words becoming more pronounced. “Because...he’s not your kind of guy.”

She shakes her head, slowly and carefully getting to her feet. “Oh? And who _is_ my kind of guy?”

For a brief, fleeting moment she wants him to say ‘me’. But it passes, and she crosses the room, leaning on the kitchen island for the support that she suddenly, desperately needs.

“Not _him_.” She isn’t looking at him, but she knows there's a look of disgust on his face. “He’s...he’s a sleaze, Min. And...he’s not your type.”

This wasn’t happening. Was it? It felt like a dream. Any minute now she'd wake up and curse having eaten so much cheese and chocolate just before bed. And, after all, Danny was usually in her dreams.

Not like this, though.

“Why do you care, anyway?” she asks, turning to him – or turning on him. It was hard to tell where her loyalties lay anymore. “What business is it of yours?”

But when she meets his stare once more, she sees something she doesn’t expect to see. His eyes – God, those eyes – are filled with such agony, such sorrow (and she doesn’t think it’s just wishful thinking that sees lust in those eyes too) that she feels like the breath has been knocked out of her. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him look this way; he’s vulnerable, aching, dying in front of her. He’s lost something since the last time she saw him, and she has no idea what it is.

“What does it matter?” he repeats, his voice hoarse. Neither of them can break the stare. “Min...are you really asking me that?”

She feels braver, or maybe more stupid, fuelled by a sense of righteous indignation that she knows will pass soon if she doesn’t take advantage of it. “Why wouldn’t I?” she demands of him, hands on hips. The ache in her heart doesn’t stop, not for a second, and she has to carry on or cave in altogether. “I was just a secret affair, right? So I’m moving on to my next victim. Maybe Peter's the guy.”

She can, immediately, sense the damage she has done to him with her words; he leans back, wounded, eyes widened in drunken disbelief. The silence is drowning her. Finally, reluctantly, she takes a step back towards the couch – a peace-making step, an apology that she can’t summon the words to actually speak out loud.

“That’s not what we were.” His voice cracks, his head hangs, the misery surrounding him too much to hold himself together against. “You know that’s not what we were.”

She has never felt such a powerful need to put her arms around him as she does at that moment, but, as always, she resists, lowering herself down on to the couch next to him, exercising so much self-control that she worries she might burst a vein in her temple. But it gets overwhelming, and she reaches for his hand as a compromise.

He freezes against her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. The words get caught in her throat. “It’s just...Peter, Danny? Are you kidding me?” Her voice gets a little stronger. "He's my friend. Kinda the only one who knows how I'm feeling right now. That's all." She pulled her hand away again. "Look, _you_ said this is what you wanted."

He looked up, dark eyes inquisitive, eyebrows raised just slightly. The connection between them is undeniable, unshakable, unbreakable. Neither can look away.

“I thought it _was_.”

Now it’s her turn to raise an eyebrow.

Apparently he can read her confusion, like a story written across her brown eyes, because he opens his mouth to continue. “I thought I wanted you to move on, because...well, I don’t know why. I thought I was doing what was best for you. I thought I was...helping you.”

“Helping me?” Her tone is a little indignant. “You think I need help?”

“No. No, I don’t,” he assures her. “It was me who needed the help. I...I thought this was what was best. I thought _wrong_ , but...”

“Wrong?” She’s almost squeaking now, so confused and almost excited at what he’s telling her. “Really?”

“Really?” He looks up again, leans the tiniest bit closer to brush a wavy tendril from her face. “Min...you have no idea how hard it’s been.”

Her voice is quiet when she speaks again. “I think I have some idea.”

The tension between them is rising again as his fingers linger on her cheek, an all too familiar sensation that she doesn’t ever want to forget. Slowly, deliberately, a finger traces the edge of her jaw, his gaze following its path, studying every inch of skin intently as if he’d never seen her before. She never felt more beautiful, she remembered now, than when he was looking at her like that. There is a look of pure concentration on his face, a look that tells her he is not to be interrupted from this task; his fingers pauses at her lips, and finally, finally, he looks up to meet her eyes.

Her breath stills in her throat.

“Mindy.” He speaks slowly, his words coming out softer than ever, something like lust lacing every syllable. “Do you...want me to go?”

She is shaking her head before she has even processed the question. His lips twist back in to a tiny smile, his fingers slipping from her face to her delicate neck, tracing the contours of her skin before coming to a rest on her shoulder. There is a pause, a moment he gives her to say more; she doesn’t say a word.

“Min.” His eyes are closed now, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against hers, the weight of his words becoming too much for him. “I think...no. I don’t think. I know...that I'm in love with you.”

Her eyes close too, more to prevent the tears from falling than for any other reason, and she bites her lip. She doesn’t know how long she’s waited to hear those words, from him, to her, but the very impact of them makes her heart ache.

“And...and I didn’t want – I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know how to admit that I had fallen for you.” His every breath hits her lips in an exquisite kiss as he speaks, and she thinks it’s almost as good as the real thing. “Loving you...I didn’t recognise the feelings in me. But you...you’re the one. You’re the one who brought them out in me, Min.”

A tear escapes, painting a silent path down her cheek, and she can’t quite bring herself to open her eyes and look at him. She can tell he’s watching her again, his gaze closer to her than it has been for a while now. It’s a moment of intimacy that she had forgotten could even exist in her life.

“Say something.”

She forces her eyes open, and he lifts up his hand to gently wipe away the rogue tear from her skin – that act alone makes another drop fall, identical to the last, weaving it’s way down her face with no regard for her carefully applied makeup. She hardly hears his murmur of “please, don’t cry” – it’s as if his words have stopped all life around her. The world has stopped spinning, and she is deaf to everything but the heavy thudding of her heart.

Then, listening to what her heart is telling her, she closes the gap between them and kisses him on the lips.

And neither of them has ever felt so complete.

“You know what?” she mumbles in to his kiss, her hands creeping up to his shoulders. “Things are...complicated. Difficult. And that’s something we need to work on.”

They are both quiet for a moment, and he nods painfully.

“But...I know that I’m in love with you too.”

He smiles, a soft smile, and holds her closer.

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't ignore the angst possibilities. I guess this could be an alternative third chapter to A Small World.  
> I continue to be very much in love with this couple, show and fandom - you guys are all so kind and welcoming! Thank you so much for your feedback. Come find me on Tumblr if you want to: cesays.tumblr.com.  
> \- C x


End file.
